


crown/fire

by Morcai



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Childhood Friends, Family Feels, Found Family, Gen, blatant connotations agenda is blatant, how to make friends and influence people, mild languages agenda is mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:07:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcai/pseuds/Morcai
Summary: In Nimaae,sky-domeis descended from the word formiracle, the two words separated only by the faintest inflections.
Relationships: Sawada Tsunayoshi & Xanxus
Comments: 13
Kudos: 185
Collections: 2019 KHR Winter Remix Fest Round 2: Remixes





	crown/fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rewire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewire/gifts).
  * Inspired by [kneel/keel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326992) by [rewire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rewire/pseuds/rewire). 



> this was......not supposed to be this long. And it could still be longer! I'm only half-resisting the temptation to flesh this out further, which could push it up to at least 10 or 15k.
> 
> I refuse to apologize for writing something so sinfully and exactly my Style and Brand for an anonymous collection.

Tsuna doesn’t know the etymology of the Nimaae word for sky-dome until he’s thirteen, and Kawahira’s sudden decision to leave Namimori within the decade necessitates emergency testing of every adolescent in Namimori. The tests reveal he has an unexpected (and nearly unprecedented) affinity for the psionic system that maintains Namimori’s soap-bubble shields against the unforgiving void of space, and he’s immediately apprenticed to Kawahira, suddenly heir to Namimori’s leadership.

It’s Reborn, hired by Arsella’s leader as a favor to his right hand, who handles most of Tsuna’s training. Reborn is a pilot, a free trader, not someone who holds colony walls, but he’s a better teacher for the basics. Kawahira provides the finer detail, the specifics of holding Namimori.

It’s during one of their rare lessons together that Kawahira mentions it, a casual aside to their discussion of how to subtly alter the sky-dome walls. Tsuna can’t stop thinking about it for months.

In Nimaae, _sky-dome_ is descended from the word for _miracle_ , the two words separated only by the faintest inflections.

“It’s because when they first set the shields up on Nimaa,” Kawahira says carelessly, “the generators were so old that they said it would be a miracle if it worked. And they kept calling the dome a miracle, until people forgot that there was originally a different word for a sky-dome, and evolved a new one.”

Tsuna stares up at the sky, after his lessons let out that day, watches the way colors play against the black sky, like the sheen of oil on water. He isn’t sure he agrees with Kawahira. Now, after almost a year of training, he can feel the way the generators hum, a soul-deep note he can’t imagine ever guttering out.

“Sky-dome,” he says. Then, “Miracle,” tasting the similarity of the words, the change in stress.

 _Sky-dome_ , unlike _miracle_ , is a doing word.

* * *

Two years on, Tsuna is what Reborn calls “almost mediocre”. Tsuna takes it as a glowing compliment about his ability to handle Namimori’s shields. Kawahira is as impassive as ever, which Tsuna does his best to take as a sign he’s at least not doing _terribly_.

Over time, Tsuna has almost gotten used to it, to the basso rhythms of Namimori’s psionic shields in his head and his blood, to the exercises Reborn puts him through, to the sudden change in his status, from a no-talent kid on a track to nowhere into the one person who could possibly take over Namimori’s leadership when Kawahira moves on. His peers have almost gotten used to him being someone worth respecting, instead of worth sneering at, have almost adjusted to how he’s missing from classes because he has more important things to do instead of because he’s doing remedial work.

He’s just sitting down to do a routine check of the shields, already feeding his attention through the connection his ring makes, feeling his support AI wake up, when Kawahira sweeps into the small side office Tsuna’s claimed, looking unusually less than impassive.

“What do you know about Arsella?” Kawahira asks, and Tsuna blinks, lets NATSU stream information through his mind, standing steady against the kitten-pounce of his AI’s eagerness.

“Colony VX-9152, designated star X-78, run on a Tri-Ni-Sette system, currently led by Timoteo di Vongola, no known heir. Primary language is Ixian. GDP is something like sixteen times ours? Some of the articles NATSU is finding call it the jewel of the Nine Rings. They maintain a military, but it’s more of a mercenary outfit. No one wants Arsella’s Swords chasing them down though, so people keep away from Arsella even when the Swords are away.”

“ _Varia_ ,” Kawahira corrects. “Sword is the translation.”

Tsuna grimaces, but feeds the information back to NATSU, who purrs an apology back.

“What information do you have on the Varia?” Kawahira continues, and Tsuna frowns slightly, confused by why his teacher is asking.

His query to NATSU is mostly fruitless, as well.

“Led by Xanxus di Vongola, who’s one of the likely heirs to the family, mostly mercenary, like I said, reputation for ruthlessness… NATSU can’t find much else.”

“Not surprising,” Kawahira says, and whatever it was that ruffled him earlier has smoothed away. “They’re not secretive, precisely, but they don’t encourage people to talk about them.”

“Why are you asking?” Tsuna asks.

“Xanxus di Vongola is travelling the Nine Rings,” Kawahira says. “ _Without_ any of the rest of the Varia, interestingly enough. He’ll be here in three days.”

Tsuna sits quietly, because Kawahira doesn’t ever just provide information to provide information. Much like Reborn, he likes to watch Tsuna _suffer_ for his education, so if he’s just saying things straight out, something worse is bound to be coming.

“You’ll be his translator and escort,” Kawahira says, before he turns and promptly leaves Tsuna’s office.

“I—” Tsuna starts, before he realizes his teacher has left.

He rests his head in his hands. “I don’t even speak Ixian,” he tells his desk mournfully.

It doesn’t answer him.

* * *

Three days pass quickly, and suddenly Tsuna is meeting Xanxus (his cousin, he’s found out, thanks to the byzantine layers of relation that spin between the colonies. Something something, his however-many-greats grandfather, something something Tsuna’s father, something something adoption. Tsuna stopped listening around the time Iemitsu came up. The point is, they’re cousins.).

Xanxus ends up being a little like an extinction-event meteor crashing into Tsuna’s life, except the meteor is also a twenty year old with a chip on his shoulder the size of a gas giant.

Their first meeting is a grand total of _maybe_ thirty seconds long.

Xanxus di Vongola descends from his shuttle like the prince he is— a Vongola of _Arsella_ , a son of the family that rules the jewel of the Nine Rings.

“Welcome to Namimori,” Tsuna says in faltering Ixian, and Xanxus looks at him, sneers, and sweeps past like Tsuna isn’t even worth a moment of his time.

Tsuna stays still for a long minute, startled by the image of Xanxus already burned into his retinas—dark leather and tan accents, dark hair with a scarlet feather in it like a war banner. Eyes like a star on the verge of supernova, and a sneer that fits slightly _wrong_ on that aristocratic face. Scars, fresh and livid, crawling across one cheekbone, and up his brow into his hairline.

Tsuna is _so_ not ready to deal with someone like this. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a choice. He takes a deep breath, turns on his heel, and follows after Xanxus.

The man’s his responsibility, after all. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t like Tsuna.

* * *

Tsuna finds himself going back on his resolve not to be bothered by Xanxus’ animosity after only a few days.

“He hates me,” he groans, arm thrown over his face as he lies in a pathetic sprawl across Ryohei’s bed.

Ryohei, who’s taking a break from studying for an exam for his physician’s license by dealing with Tsuna’s colony-leader-in-training drama, makes an amused sound.

“He just doesn’t know you, little bro,” Ryohei says. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“He hates me,” Tsuna repeats, despairingly. Thinking of the way Xanxus di Vongola’s lips peeled back from his teeth at being greeted, of the furious scarlet of the man’s eyes, Tsuna continues, “He’s going to kill me and leave my body in an alleyway for Reborn to find. And then Reborn is going to bring me back from the dead and kill me again for letting someone kill me before I’ve even taken over from Kawahira.”

“Can Reborn even _do_ that?” Ryohei asks, sounding morbidly curious. “That sounds extremely impossible.”

“It’s Reborn,” Tsuna says. “ _Possible_ is a suggestion. And besides, if he can’t do it, Kawahira _definitely_ can.”

The two of them pause, contemplating.

“That’s extremely true,” Ryohei finally says, in a distinctly uncomforting tone of voice. “You’ll just have to extremely make friends with him then, so he stops wanting to kill you!”

Tsuna shifts his arm so that he can give Ryohei an unamused look.

“I can’t tell if you’re spending too much time with Kyouya, or with Takeshi,” he says, “but that was the _most_ unhelpful advice I’ve gotten since I asked Reborn how he kept doing Suresh equations faster than I could.”

“What did he say?” Ryohei asks, with the unmistakable glee all of Tsuna’s friends have for stories about his horrific education.

“He said ‘Just do them in your head, idiot student,’” Tsuna says, doing his best to mimic Reborn’s voice.

Ryohei bursts into laughter.

Tsuna shoves his face back into the crook of his elbow, and groans loudly for good measure. He needs better friends.

Still, Ryohei might be onto something. Xanxus is prickly and angry and clearly doesn’t want to be on Namimori, but Tsuna can’t help but think that he always seems— almost lonely. Making friends with Xanxus. If it doesn’t kill him, it might be worth a try.

* * *

It takes two weeks before Tsuna works up the courage to meet Xanxus outside of the guest quarters, instead of at the Hub, which houses Kawahira and Tsuna’s offices as well as the major machinery that helps power Namimori’s sky-dome.

He doesn’t tell Xanxus that he’s doing it, of course. There’s nothing quite like saying the words out loud to puncture Tsuna’s fragile courage when he decides on something. Instead he just turns up outside the doors, shoulders hunched against the morning chill and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his favorite orange hoodie.

Tsuna has no idea what they’re going to do, because it isn’t like Namimori is all that big, and somehow he can’t imagine Xanxus being content to waste a day at the arcade, the way Tsuna sometimes has with his friends.

He’s not waiting long. Xanxus has always been scrupulously, angrily punctual to their meetings, and Tsuna knows every inch of Namimori. It wasn’t hard to extrapolate back to when Xanxus would be leaving the guest quarters.

Xanxus emerges from the guest quarters, and Tsuna just watches him for a moment. This far away, without Xanxus being aware of him, Tsuna has a chance to look at him without the overwhelming pressure of his attention.

Tsuna hadn’t realized, not really, that Xanxus has worn his uniform every day. He’d noticed, of course he had, that Xanxus wears nothing but black leather and wrinkled white shirts, but he hadn’t _realized_. The jacket is a Varia jacket, stripped of all rank insignia. The boots look like the few images NATSU found of Arsella’s military.

Xanxus is ostensibly on Namimori for—well, Tsuna doesn’t really know. But he’s not here as a member of the Varia. Tsuna wonders what it means, that the man wears the closest thing he must own to his uniform anyway. It seems...sad.

He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Instead, he steps forward, and Xanxus’ head snaps up, attention focussing in on Tsuna instantly.

“Good morning,” Tsuna tries, in Ixian. Better Ixian, he hopes, than his first try. He’s been working on it with Reborn and Hayato, both of whom still wince when he speaks their native tongue, but maybe a little less.

Xanxus goes still for a moment, expression closed and furious as ever. Finally, he says, “Your accent is shit,” but there’s, maybe, the slightest hint of less hostility in his voice.

Tsuna chooses to take it as a good sign.

“What’s your little agenda say for today?” Xanxus says, starting to stalk down the streets towards the Hub, and Tsuna scrambles to follow, flicking the itinerary Kawahira gave him open on his ring. They’ve been following it for the last two weeks, which Tsuna’s had some misgivings about, but what _else_ is he supposed to do with the Nine Rings’ most prickly Vongola to squire around?

Not that Tsuna _knows_ any other Vongolas, but he can’t imagine any of them have anything on Xanxus’ poor temper.

The itinerary, once Tsuna gets it pulled up, says _Trades_ , and Tsuna pulls up short.

To be fair, the Trades building _could_ be interesting— could be a _lot_ more interesting than some of the places Tsuna’s taken Xanxus over the course of the last several days. But Tsuna happens to know that _absolutely no one_ is in the Trades building, because there hasn’t been a trader docking at Namimori in at least the last month and a half. And it’s not like someone arrived in the last day or so— Tsuna would have _noticed_ that.

“What is it now?” Xanxus snaps, aggrieved.

“...Nothing,” Tsuna says. He’s not taking Xanxus to the Trades building. It’ll have been scrubbed clean, and Tsuna neither wants to deal with Xanxus’ boredom at seeing an empty room, nor have to oversee the decontamination process after they leave. “Just—”

Just he needs _something_ to keep Xanxus entertained. Something more interesting than an empty building, or a kitchen, or the public-access areas of the docks, out of the way of the technicians and engineers.

 _Engineers_.

“Just follow me,” Tsuna says. Shoichi probably won’t ever forgive Tsuna for dropping Xanxus on him without warning, but Tsuna figures he can handle Shoichi’s anger with him a lot better than Xanxus’.

* * *

Shoichi’s workshop turns out to entertain Xanxus significantly more than Tsuna had even dared to hope for. Maybe some of that comes from the fact that Shoichi chooses to get his revenge on Tsuna immediately, by using him as a test subject for a variable-configuration robot he’s co-designing with a roboticist six systems away.

(Shoichi spent most of the time he was testing the robot bemoaning that he and his pen pal don’t live closer to each other. _Tsuna_ spent the entire time being glad that the distance between them meant that he only had to put up with the equivalent of one and a half mad engineers.)

Tsuna’s nursing bruises as they make their way back to the guest quarters, limping a little from when the bot managed to get a solid hit in just above his knee. Xanxus’ expression, though, is fractionally lighter than it’s been for the past two weeks—rage leavened, perhaps, by some sort of glee at Tsuna’s predicament.

It’s depressingly familiar to Tsuna. All of his best friends _also_ find his problems funny.

Eventually, they’re standing outside of the guest quarters again. Tsuna’s about to say his goodbyes for the day, when something in the set of Xanxus’ shoulders, the way he looks back at the building stops him.

“Come home with me,” Tsuna’s mouth says without his permission.

“What.” Xanxus’ voice is flat, deadly, and the cut of his eyes is sharp enough that Tsuna almost quails in spite of himself.

But he’s already said it, so he might as well continue.

“Come home with me,” he repeats, lifting his chin and summoning up the bravery to meet Xanxus’ eyes. “You hate the guest quarters, and they’re not meant for long-term stays anyway. We have a spare room, and my mom won’t mind cooking for one extra.”

There’s a long silence, where Xanxus looks down on him with those furious eyes, and Tsuna refuses to look away.

Finally Xanxus laughs, a sharp, humorless sound.

“Sure,” he says. “Why the fuck not. The food in that place is shit anyway, and I’m stuck on this rock for at least a few more months.”

Tsuna smiles up at Xanxus.

“Come on,” he says, and he feels like he understands Xanxus a little more now, though he’s not sure why. “My house is this way.”

* * *

Living with Xanxus does not, in fact, immediately improve the situation. He’s still surly and angry and uninterested in what Tsuna’s showing him, and Tsuna is still more than a little bit afraid that he’s going to get killed. But after a week and a half, when Tsuna invites Xanxus to meet his friends, Xanxus leaves the Varia coat behind, so maybe things are getting better.

Tsuna keeps trying Ixian, and Xanxus keeps ignoring him, right up until the day that, apparently fed up, he responds entirely in Ixian, and ignores any overtures Tsuna tries to make in Nimaae.

Before long, Tsuna’s mother is watching, entertained, as her guest lectures her son in Ixian every morning over the breakfast table, ignoring Tsuna’s weak efforts to return the conversation to his birth language, or at least Trade Common.

Tsuna refuses to admit it, but he finds the almost-spiteful way Xanxus refuses to speak anything but Ixian in the house to be a good sign. Still, he retaliates by dragging his cousin through the depths and dirt of Namimori, from stints in the repair bays working on motorcycles and comet miners to the secluded corners of the docks that a younger Tsuna discovered.

“I think I first figured out the bays were empty most of the time when I was eight or so,” he explains, leading the way through the labyrinthine corridors, reading the sector labels with the ease of long practice. “No one bothers to check them if there isn’t a shuttle or hauler assigned to the pad.”

He presses a hand to the lock, which chirps agreeably, and the door hisses open. It was one of his early projects, when Reborn started letting him off the leash, to update the biometrics of the docks. It really shouldn’t be possible for an eight year old to get into every corner.

“Why?” Xanxus asks, as Tsuna steps into the cargo bay.

“My classmates didn’t like me much,” Tsuna says, climbing up to sit on the railing that marks off the walkway from the cargo pad proper. “A couple of them were...bullies I guess. Chased me around for money, made me do things for them. I didn’t have any spine, back then, or any friends. Easy target. So I started coming here. It’s easy to lose someone in the back hallways, and most people don’t like being this close to the shields.”

“They bullied the future colony leader?” Xanxus’ voice speaks volumes on how stupid of an idea he considers that.

“I wasn’t that, though,” Tsuna says, looking over his shoulder towards where Xanxus is leaning against the wall. “Kawahira’s an Earthling. He could keep running Namimori for another three centuries and still be in his prime. It wasn’t until he said he wanted to leave, and instituted testing, that I became the future head of Namimori.”

Xanxus laughs, humorless. “Bet they didn’t like that.”

Tsuna shrugs, turning sideways on the railing to look at Xanxus more easily. “Didn’t matter. Kawahira pulled me out of classes for six months so that Reborn could beat the basics into me. When he let me back in I was...old news I guess. They’d found new targets.”

“Trash,” Xanxus says.

“Kids,” Tsuna counters, swinging his feet a little. “They’ll grow out of it.”

Xanxus scowls at him, and Tsuna laughs quietly, turning back to face the stars. It was comforting, years ago, to see the stars through the soap-bubble sheen of Namimori’s shields, and know that the Nine Rings were so much bigger than just Namimori.

Now, it’s a reminder of just how big Namimori is. Tsuna rubs his thumb against his ring, hums a single note deep in his chest.

It doesn’t come close to the basso rumble of Namimori’s shields, which buzzes affectionately back through his skull, but it’s as good as he can do.

There’s a sigh from behind him, and Tsuna feels it as Xanxus comes to stand behind him—a sensation with weight, a feeling of _presence_ , even though he hasn’t turned his head to look.

“You sound like the old man when you do that,” Xanxus says.

“Your father?”

“He’s _not_ my _father_ ,” Xanxus snarls, and Tsuna startles, the reflexive tightening of his hands on the railing the only thing keeping him from falling three meters down to the cargo pad floor. A heavy hand clamps down on his shoulder a second later, pulling him back towards the walkway, helping him regain his balance.

“He’s not my father,” Xanxus repeats, softer, as he lets go of Tsuna’s shoulder. “...I’m adopted.”

Tsuna breathes out slowly, and does not turn around and punch his cousin.

“He still raised you, didn’t he?” he says instead.

“It doesn’t mean anything. I can’t inherit Arsella.” It’s as final as an airlock slamming shut, as gravity dragging a meteor into atmosphere. “He raised me and called me his son and he knew the _whole fucking time_ I couldn’t possibly inherit Arsella. And he wouldn’t _tell me_ , the coward. I had to find out from hacking his personal computers.”

Tsuna opens his mouth, closes it. He doesn’t have anything to say in the face of Xanxus’ fury and misery.

“I tried. You know, basic linkup exercise, the way that they test if you’ve got any psionic power. But I linked directly into Arsella’s Tri-Ni-Sette, trying to prove what I’d found wrong, and it nearly killed me. When I woke up in medical, he told me as soon as I recovered, I was on indefinite leave from the Varia.”

“That’s why you’re wandering the Nine Rings now?” Tsuna asks, voice forcibly even.

A dark laugh. “Not like I was going to stick around if I didn’t have anything to do.”

“Would you now? Have something to do, I mean. If you went back”

Tsuna doesn’t want to plant this idea in Xanxus’ head. He doesn’t want his cousin to leave. He wants more Ixian lessons over the dinner table, wants to hear Xanxus mock his accent, wants to drag Xanxus to the last few corners of Namimori he still hasn’t shown off. But Namimori is a small place, and Xanxus is meant for something bigger.

There’s a long silence, before Xanxus clicks his tongue and says, “Stop letting people tell you you’re stupid, brat.”

Tsuna frowns, almost turning to look at Xanxus, confused by the non sequitur. A steady hand on his back stops him, and he turns back to the stars, worried. Once he stops trying to look, Xanxus lets him go.

“The old man sent a message three weeks ago,” Xanxus says. “Upon my return, whenever I _choose_ to return, the Varia is mine again.”

Tsuna bites his lip, swallows the selfish _stay_ that wants to roll off his tongue.

“If you need something,” he says instead, locking his ankles around the railing and leaning back, still staring out at the stars, “call me. I’ll answer.”

A sigh, and Tsuna feels Xanxus settle, leaning on the railing next to him. “Who’d ever need something from someone like you, brat?”

Tsuna just laughs, not at all offended. It’s as good as _thank you_ , it’s all but _I will_.

* * *

Xanxus doesn’t leave immediately. It doesn’t take him long to pack up, to extract himself from Namimori, but he’s been around for almost two months.

Besides, Namimori isn’t the kind of place that can drag freighters out of their normal path just to take on one passenger, no matter how prestigious that passenger might be.

But eventually a freighter comes—bound almost directly for Arsella after they drop off their Namimori cargo, and pick up a shuttle’s worth of Namimori’s limited trade goods.

Xanxus leaves with little more than he came with, packed efficiently into the same spacer’s bags. It’s a little, Tsuna feels, like their first meeting in reverse, looking at Xanxus on the docks again. He’s wearing the unmarked Varia uniform again, head held high. His scars are less livid, faded pink-silver and brown now, and his expression is less fixed.

“Message me,” Tsuna says, as Xanxus boards. “Even if it’s just every couple months. Message me.”

Xanxus inclines his head slightly, and Tsuna hopes it means _yes_ , hopes it means _I will_.

And then the shuttle is closing its doors, readying itself to leave, and Tsuna is stepping back, until he’s made it through the airlock. He feels it, like a shiver on his skin, when the shuttle breaches Namimori’s shields, and shortly thereafter breaks orbit.

He tracks the shuttle through NATSU, watching with satellite eyes as it docks with the Arsella-bound freighter that will take Xanxus back home. He watches as the engines power up, and then as the freighter _inverts_ and _bends_ with the forces of the warp drive, twisting in ways that Tsuna can only describe with the taste of adjectives like _ichthyoid_ and _recalcitrant_ , the smell of brilliant blue.

The freighter is gone, and Tsuna returns his mind to his body, shuddering and then fighting the urge to spit, or scrape his tongue off right there on the dock.

“It’s really not a good idea to look at ships entering warp,” Kawahira says serenely, and Tsuna looks up at his teacher balefully.

“You couldn’t say that earlier?”

“Experience,” Kawahira replies, unruffled, “is the best teacher.”

Tsuna, recognizing that he can’t get away with the same things his cousin can, makes the conscious decision not to tell his teacher to get fucked.

* * *

It takes a while, but eventually life on Namimori settles back to normal. Tsuna’s hours at the Hub get longer again, Reborn and Kawahira’s lessons become more intensive, forcing Tsuna into deeper familiarity with the shields, which rumble like starfire in his head.

There are no messages from Arsella. Tsuna may be slightly insufferable about this.

“Is this what pining looks like?” Chrome asks, when Tsuna exceeds her patience with his whining. “Are you pining for the angry guy half a decade older than you?”

Tsuna splutters into his coffee, because of course Chrome asks the question just as he’s taking a sip.

“No!” he says. “I’m just worried!”

“He’s an adult,” Chrome says serenely, sipping her tea and sketching something on her tablet. “He can take care of himself.”

Tsuna frowns slightly at her, setting down his coffee and slouching in his seat until his chin is resting on the table, before muttering petulantly, “He really can’t.”

Chrome sighs, laying down her stylus.

“He didn’t leave you an ansible key, or a message address,” she says, ruthlessly practical. “That means he has to message you first. And if he isn’t going to do that, you can’t do anything about it.”

Tsuna blows out a breath. She’s right, but that doesn’t stop it from stinging, doesn’t stop it from feeling like he _should_ be doing something to make sure he doesn’t just _lose_ Xanxus.

“I don’t like it,” he says, aware of just how childish it makes him sound. Chrome looks back at him, half in pity, half in understanding, and taps him gently on the forehead.

“You don’t have to,” she says. “But complaining won’t change anything.”

Tsuna allows himself a single sigh, and ten more seconds of slouching, before he makes himself sit up, pull his own tablet out of his bag and start working on the precis Kawahira assigned him about the new trade laws in the sector.

The two of them work quietly on their disparate projects, and Tsuna forces himself not to swipe back into his message thread with Xanxus’ Namimori ID, like there will be one he hasn’t read, forces himself not to open his messages, as if there’s somehow going to be one that arrives without pinging him.

It’s only been a few weeks. Maybe Xanxus is busy. From his stories, running the Varia has much in common with herding cats. It wouldn’t be surprising if he didn’t have time to send a message, even just to say he’s arrived safely back to Arsella.

* * *

Years go by. The ache dulls, but Tsuna still finds himself scrolling mindlessly back through his messages with Xanxus, checking his messages for one that arrived without him noticing.

He drafts dozens of messages— _Shoichi and Spanner met today, and we’re going to need a more blastproof lab for them_ and _Ryohei passed his boards! I would have said something earlier, but he said we were going to party to the EXTREME and i’ve only just sobered up_ and _Reborn said he’s proud of me today, and I asked him if he was feeling okay_ — and never sends any of them. Deletes them when the number gets too high.

There’s never an address to send them to.

* * *

There’s an ansible ring, and Tsuna sucks in a sharp breath, looking at the designation Takeshi has attached in forwarding the call.

 _Arsella_.

He answers. He couldn’t possibly do otherwise.

“Cousin?” he asks, because there’s only one person from Arsella who would call him, and he might not know what’s broken Xanxus’ years-long silence, but it doesn’t matter.

He promised, once, a childish promise from the child he once was, that he would always answer, if Xanxus needed him.

“Tsunayoshi,” says that familiar voice, rough at the edges with something unspeakable, heavy like the first touch of gravity. “I need a favor.”

“Anything,” Tsuna says immediately. Xanxus will hate that answer, he doesn’t believe in that kind of unqualified offer, but it’s the only one that Tsuna can offer, because it’s true.

Predictably, Xanxus’ next words come in a growl. “Don’t say something like that when you don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

“Cousin,” Tsuna says, carefully light on the word. “It’s _you_. I don’t need to know. You wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

There’s a pause, and then Xanxus says, “Arsella is gone.” He sounds just like he did all those years ago, like he did the last time his world had come crashing down around him. Tsuna can’t help taking a sharp breath in, cut by his cousin’s pain, and shocked by the loss of a colony he’d never seen and heard so much about.

“My people need a place to stay,” Xanxus continues. And then, like he’s admitting some failing— “I need a place to stay.”

Tsuna is already pulling up housing details, catching Hayato’s eye from across the office and gesturing him over. Arsella is— _was_ —a big colony, bigger than Namimori by at least an order of magnitude, but the way Xanxus sounds, Tsuna has a sinking suspicion he didn’t get even most of his people out.

“Boss?” Hayato says, and Tsuna looks up at him.

“Refugee situation,” he says, trying to find a way to be calm about this. “Arsella is gone, Xanxus is bringing everyone he could rescue here. What can we do?”

Hayato frowns, looks down at his rings, accessing Namimori’s information net, and specifically his personal AI.

“URI says we have room for seven hundred right now, but we could clear more with a little time. Any outstanding needs?”

“I don’t know yet. Get started on clearing space—I don’t know how many people Xanxus managed to get out. I’ll send you more information as I get it.”

Hayato nods, once, and heads back to his desk, fingers twitching slightly as he bickers with URI and makes things happen.

“I’ll send you a warp point,” Tsuna says, returning his attention to Xanxus. “We have room for seven hundred right now, but Hayato is working on clearing space for more, so just hold on. We’ve got you.”

There’s a long pause, and then—

“Thank you,” Xanxus says, and he sounds jagged with relief.

“No problem,” Tsuna says. “I’ll send the rest of the details by data packet. Travel safe.”

He ends the call, and stares blankly at the walls of his office, listens to Namimori burning in his blood.

Arsella is gone, and Xanxus is coming back. Tsuna allows himself six deep breaths to wallow in that, in the complicated mix of grief and fear and joy that makes him feel.

Then he brushes his thumb over his ring, turns his attention to his colony, and gets back to work. There’s about to be— he doesn’t even know how many people arriving, scared and angry and grieving. The least Namimori can do is have space for them when they arrive, be ready to feed them.

This is more than Namimori has ever had to do— this is more than they were ever meant to handle. They’re a tiny colony on the edge of known space, visited only occasionally by traders and explorers.

They’ll do it anyway.

Namimori burns brightly against the stars, in Tsuna’s blood, and he throws himself into planning. They don’t have much time. Hayato is already handling housing, so Tsuna focuses on the other necessities. What will the refugees need?

The simplest things— food, new clothing, medical care— are easily delegated. Tsuna pings Takeshi, Mukuro and Ryohei, dropping the assignments to their rings with a priority override. That can’t be all they’ll need though. He’s forgetting something. Probably a lot of somethings.

Tsuna finds himself flipping through the data packet Kawahira left him, years ago, like it’ll help. Like this is a situation with precedent. It doesn’t help.

“Crisis counsellors, Boss,” Hayato says, from where he’s deep in conversation with URI, negotiating with various Namimori public buildings for living space.

He’s right.

“Crisis counsellors,” Tsuna repeats under his breath, and NATSU responds, calling up the personnel profiles of the few people they have who might fit the role.

Flipping through them reveals that none of them have much experience, let alone specialize in it, but they don’t have the time to be picky. The time to when Xanxus arrives with the Arsella refugees is ticking down.

Tsuna orders the profiles by who he thinks will do best, attaches a summary of the situation, and sends it to Kyouya. There’s no one better for rounding people up and making them understand the gravity of a situation.

It keeps going like that. There’s always just one more thing, one more problem to solve, to pass on to the right one of his Guardians (or the almost right one, or the one who’s finished their task most recently). Tsuna loses track of time, too occupied with the constant stream of information through NATSU and his ring, too occupied with the necessary changes to Namimori’s shields.

It’s a proximity alarm that finally breaks him out of the dizzy-electric rush of planning.

There are half a dozen ships at the edge of the system, fresh out of warp. Natsu provides the immediate take from satellites, and Tsuna’s mouth turns down. They’re a ragged, mismatched rescue fleet, and they say terrible things about how many of Arsella’s people Xanxus was able to rescue.

“Are we ready?” Hayato asks.

“We have to be,” Tsuna says, blinking away the image of starships. “Don’t we?”

* * *

In a twist of deep irony, Tsuna finds himself standing in the bay where he once promised he’d help Xanxus with whatever he needed. If it weren’t for the fact that no one else had been present, and also that Lambo doesn’t have a poetic bone in his body, Tsuna would accuse him of doing it intentionally.

Tsuna stands on the pad, breathes deeply, takes comfort in the presence of his Guardians at his back—all of them but Lambo, who is busily coordinating parking orbits and shuttle landings for their refugees.

His heart is thundering, and he feels a little bit like he might vomit, too nervous about seeing Xanxus again after so long. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face.

Finally, Xanxus exits the shuttle, followed by his own Guardians. Tsuna should be looking at them, should be trying to match faces with names and Xanxus’ laconic descriptions of them.

He doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on his cousin as Xanxus approaches, finally coming to a halt not even three meters from where Tsuna is standing.

Tradition dictates a bow, but Tsuna isn’t surprised when Xanxus only bends far enough to incline his head slightly. His cousin has always been proud, and right now his pride is one of the only things he has.

Hayato, who doesn’t have the benefit of knowing Xanxus so well, bristles. Tsuna just raises a hand, says, “It’s okay, Hayato.”

Then he turns back to look at the Varia, at Xanxus in that familiar black leather jacket, now accented all over with marks of rank, and can’t help the smile that crosses his face, warm, but more than a little wry too.

“Long time no see, Xanxus,” Tsuna says, deliberately matching the careless phrase with archaic word choice. One of Xanxus’ guardians looks at him askance, but Tsuna doesn’t let it bother him. They can think what they want of the words he’s said. His Ixian has always been heavily accented, but there’s nothing wrong with his grasp of the language. Xanxus knows that well enough.

He doesn’t wince, but Tsuna can see how he almost wants to. It’s good to know that even now, after years of silence, Tsuna can still read his cousin, still knows the person he was once closest to in all the Nine Rings.

“Well met, Tsunayoshi,” Xanxus returns, voice steady on the traditional greeting. It’s the way one admits to having returned to their home, to their place of safety. Tsuna never taught Xanxus any other greeting, but he’s not stupid enough to think Xanxus doesn’t know any other ways to greet someone in Nimaae. His cousin isn’t an idiot.

This is deliberate. Xanxus had a safe place here, once. He’s brought a thousand people here, on the hope that he still has it. His chin is held high though, his shoulders squared. He’s not going to beg— Tsuna can still read that in him too.

“I need a place for my people to stay,” Xanxus says, and if his voice isn’t desperate, it’s only because he’s trying very hard to keep it that way. “A week, and we can be gone.”

It’s so _Xanxus_ , to only ask for a week when he needs so much longer, when he needs so much more. Tsuna can’t help the way he grins, an awkward sideways thing, like he’s a student again, learning Ixian from the angry boy Kawahira ordered him to keep busy.

“Take all the time you need, cousin,” Tsuna says, and turns, gestures to the colony that burns so heavy in his blood and on his brow, lets Namimori gleam in his eyes when he catches Xanxus’ gaze again.

“Let Namimori shield you for a bit,” he says. _Let Namimori be your sky-dome for a bit_ , too, thanks to Ixian homonyms. The same sentence in Nimaae would be just the barest inflection from _Let Namimori be your miracle, for a while._

Xanxus hesitates, and then nods, one sharp motion. Tsuna knows he hears all of those meanings, like Tsuna meant him to.

Xanxus is still, even with Tsuna’s Guardians behind him, even with all the years that have separated them, the person who knows Tsuna best in all the worlds of the Nine Rings.

**Author's Note:**

> drinking game: take a shot every time i riff on "Blankets and Bedding" (and _Come From Away_ more generally) in this fic and then call an ambulance because your liver has carved its way out of your body to escape what you're doing to it.
> 
> Other notes: You may (or may not!) have noticed that while my dialogue paraphrases wire's in the scenes where our fics overlap, it doesn't copy it--this is intentional. I had more fun trying to rewrite the scenes relying on my memory of the beats of them, and the idea of copying wire's dialogue left a bad taste in my mouth.
> 
> This is a surprisingly comedy-heavy fic for the subject matter, and I think that's because tormenting Tsuna is my favorite thing to do in all the world.
> 
> As ever, thanks to Crissy for putting up with my whining and not laughing (too hard) at me when I realized I was missing an entire scene at the eleventh hour.
> 
> Anyway, I'm on twitter @boycottromance, and pillowfort as morcai, if you want to chat! Kudos feed me and comments are things of beauty and joy forever. If you have questions, please comment them, I do try to reply in a timely manner! (comments going unreplied to before now (1/9/2020) was because i was trying not to be the Most Obvious Fool In The Club about which fic i wrote, since I'd already written a fic from the depths of my id.


End file.
